A Journal
by Tofania
Summary: John is advised to keep a journal after the fall. He begins writing not to himself, not to his therapist, but to Sherlock. He never stopped believing.
1. 1

I don't understand.

I know what you would say to that, if you were here. You would do that thing with your eyes, the way they roll upwards slightly, and your lips would flick up just a smidge, because here was a chance to show off, and then you would open your mouth and a brilliant explanation would fly out, rapidly and clearly and succinctly and brilliantly. And everyone would look at you, amazed and in awe, while I stood there next to you, unnoticed. But I didn't mind. I never did. I was just glad that I was the closest person to you, that I was the only one who knew what was beneath all the intelligence and theatrics and aloofness.

I understood _you_.

But I don't understand why you did what you did. Because what happened, that day that seemed so long ago but it really wasn't, that wasn't you. That person standing on the rooftop, that was a liar and a cheat and a coward.

And you are not any of those. You never were. And I will never,_ ever_ believe anyone who contradicts that.

I closed my blog. My therapist said I need to get my thoughts out, my feelings and other rubbish. I chose a less public way, I suppose. A journal. It feels silly, to be honest. I know you would ridicule it. Of course, I wasn't originally going to write this to _you_. But I just started jotting things down and it was automatic...as if I couldn't think of any other way of expressing myself.

I suppose it's just strange without you here with me. I couldn't…I don't know. Believe it? I couldn't absorb it, I guess, the idea of you being…gone. The idea that you are only human, an insignificant smattering of bone and tissue and cells and organs, as fragile as any other person on the planet…

And there was so much blood. I could never get over that. The tears and the blood and your wrists...as quiet as a church. No pulse. At all.

Only human.

And I think about it now and I think about how it was only a few months ago. And I become confused. Time doesn't pass the way it used to. It feels like that day was a million years ago, and yet every night in my dreams it is as real and as present as it was in that very moment.

I don't sleep much anymore. When I do, it's always nightmares. I see you falling in the darkness. I yell your name, I run, I try to catch you, but I can't move. I always see you fall, and I always see you, lifeless, on the ground with blood, so much blood…

But for some reason, I never see you hit the ground.


	2. 2

I finally moved out of the flat yesterday.

I didn't have to tell Mrs. Hudson to keep all your things the way they are. She just knew, somehow, that I didn't want them moved. The skull, the jackknife, the mirror, the harpoon, your violin, even Irene Adler's old phone. Everything is where you always kept them, just as they were. Just as they are supposed to be.

I took your coat, though. I figured you wouldn't mind.

I must be mad. Writing to a dead man.

Mycroft checks up on me every now and then, tries to make sure I get out and do things. I do. I put up a good act, enough to fool people into thinking that I'm fine, that I'm alright, that I've moved on, that you were nothing, just a flatmate I had for a short while. It's almost enough to fool Mycroft.

Almost enough to fool you, even.

Almost.


	3. 3

I had a dream about you last night. A good dream, not another nightmare.

I was the one falling instead of you.

And for some reason, I never hit the ground.


	4. 4

My limp is back.

Nothing else to say.


	5. 5

Sorry I haven't written in a few months.

I met someone. A woman, named Mary. Mary Morstan.

She's nice. But not sentimental nice, not pity nice, not condescending nice. Real nice. I don't know how else to put it. I mean, that's it: real. She is so real, so genuine, in every way.

I think you would like her.

She knows about you, but she doesn't talk about you very much. Which is fine. She helps me with the limp and the nightmares but she doesn't feel sorry for me, which is good. Really good.

I always feel a little less hollow when she's around. Like she's filling up the space where my heart used to be.

Sometimes I think my heart died with you.

Sometimes I think I am your heart.


	6. 6

Yesterday it was exactly three years since you died.

Yesterday was also the day I got married.

Mary chose the date. I don't think she knows that that was the day it had happened. I didn't want to tell her. I didn't want to make her worried.

I wonder what you would have been like at the wedding. Standing stiffly in a tuxedo…you always hated tuxedos. Muttering deductions about the guests and generally being a dick.

I wish you could have been my best man.

Sometimes I can't stop myself from thinking that it was my fault. That you died. I could have stopped you. I could have said something, convinced you, maybe. But all I did was stand there like an idiot, mouth open, wide eyed. I didn't even try. I just let you die, let you jump off.

It was as if I had held a gun to your head, and let you pull the trigger.

I guess it was because I couldn't believe it…wouldn't believe it. Even when you said that this was your note, your suicide note, I didn't believe it. I would never believe that you had lied to me, that you would hurt me like this. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have listened to Donovan when she said to stay away from you. Maybe I could have stopped all this from happening, could have saved myself the pain.

But I know I wouldn't.

I would do it all over again, Sherlock, if I had the chance.


	7. 7

I'm writing this in the hospital waiting room. Mary has cancer.

I'm not allowed to go see her yet, no matter how many times I plead with the doctors.

I worry about her so much. But I can't let her see that, she'd worry too. Maybe that was why we got along so well, we're both constant worriers.

I'm scared, Sherlock.

This is different than Afghanistan, or the hound case at Baskerville, or almost anything else I've ever experienced. It doesn't matter that I'm a soldier anymore. I feel like a scared, helpless child.

There is absolutely nothing in the world more frightening than the prospect of losing someone you love.

Again.


	8. 8

I was wrong.

The only thing more frightening than the prospect of losing someone you love is the moment that you lose them.

Mary died last night.


	9. 9

Snowing today.


	10. 10

It's raining. Snow turned to slush.


	11. 11

I miss you.


	12. 12

Sun's out today.


	13. 13

I love you.


	14. 14

Visited your grave again. Then Mary's.

The flowers I put there were wilting. I replaced them.


	15. 15

A miracle is too much to ask for, isn't?

You never did miracles.


	16. 16

I stopped replacing the flowers.

Now there are wilted rose petals all over the graves.

It looks nice.


	17. 17

You're not coming back.


	18. 18

I'm sorry.

All the things I wanted to say to you, but never had the chance…

Well, I'm going to have the chance soon, so I suppose there's no point writing them down here.

You're never going to read this anyway. Neither will Mary.

But it's fine. Really, it is. For the first time since your fall, I'm fine. Perfectly fine.

And this…

This is my note.

I think, Sherlock, I finally understand.

And I'm sorry that it has to end this way. I know this is not what you would have wanted for me.

But it's the only way. The only escape.

And that's why I understand.

Even though I couldn't live for you, at least I could die for you.

And no matter what happened or will happen, even till the very end, Sherlock…

I always believed in you.


End file.
